If We Fall or Merely Stumble
by Slinky-and-the-BloodyWands
Summary: They've both been shattered so many times, who's going to notice a few more cracks on the surface? He didn't notice what the creature had done to his brother. Sam wonders if he can blame that on his fractured mental state, or if Dean's really just gotten that good at gluing himself back together again. Season 7; rated M for a reason! One-shot in two parts.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Supernatural. Written for entertainment, not profit.

**Notes/Warning: **Setting is around mid season 7. This is intended to be more hurt/comfort than smut, but it does have a scene involving **non-con,** which I have edited the details out of to fit an M rating, so please keep that in mind if you want to continue. If you prefer, the original higher rated version as well as art made by the wonderful Patricia de Lioncourt can be found here: twisted-slinky. livejournal 56263. html (remove spaces).

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**_If We Fall or Merely Stumble_**

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Part 1 of 2

* * *

His back pressed against the bathroom door, long legs splayed out in front of him, Sam remained a statue while the devil watched from his seat on the edge of the closest bed. Sam could hear the sounds from the tiny room behind him, of the water-damaged flooring groaning with the weight of Dean, of medical tape being ripped, of towels being tossed. He'd swear he could even hear his brother's breathing, deep and paced, as if all were right in the world.

But all wasn't right, and Dean had been in there a long time.

"One day," Lucifer said, his eyes rolled upward, as if recalling a fairy tale, "he's going take a great fall and not be able to put all the pieces back together again. Of course, it won't really matter then, will it? You're not going to last that long, are you, Sam?"

Sam stared straight ahead, dark eyes unwavering in their refusal to acknowledge the hallucination. But Lucifer was right, and because he was a figment of Sam's imagination, he knew he was right. There was no winning with Satan. Still, Sam stayed quiet, partly because he didn't want his brother to know he was listening in, waiting to hear a sound that was wrong, any excuse to bust through the door.

Seven hours ago, things had been different. Seven hours ago, Sam hadn't yet realized what should have been obvious, that the brothers Winchester would never feel things the way other people felt things. They'd seen too much, been torn asunder, and were still breathing. That perspective, Hell's gift to them, would make all other woes more numbing than destructive. A piece of Sam died with that realization.

"Oh, come on, Sammy," Lucifer groaned, bored already, "it's not like it's even the worse thing that's ever happened to him."

Seven hours ago, they'd been on a job.

* * *

The chill in the air worked better than the three cups of coffee he'd downed earlier, but it remained unwelcome. Dean's gaze was wide, overly aware, arms down to his side, even though he wanted to cross them over his jacket to ward off the stiff breeze off the ocean. He slid beside one of the many sycamores growing in the shallow valley, listening for movement from the closest group of campers. Off-season or not, there were still more civilians around than he would have liked.

"Malibu," he hissed, annoyed at the mere name. "Ranger Tina owes us one for this."

Sam, at his side, frowned, but didn't voice a disagreement. "You're the one who told her we'd take the job."

"I thought the beach would be warmer," Dean muttered.

"It's winter. And three in the morning."

"It's Malibu," Dean snapped, but his heart wasn't in the argument. Neither was Sam's.

They both knew the real reason they had returned the park ranger's call, and while, aloud, they'd agreed it was because she was an old acquaintance of Bobby's, the main draw had been the state of the bodies being found. They'd been half eaten. Not a big surprise considering they were talking about corpses exposed to the ocean, only these poor saps hadn't drowned and had been discovered far from Leo Carrillo beach, despite the fact that it was their last known location. And the distance had nothing to do with the current. Something was trying to keep its hunting grounds off the radar; something that left a black substance behind on two of the vics.

Sam wasn't sold on it being leviathan related, but Dean wasn't willing to pass up the possibility. Either way, a hunt was a hunt.

Ranger Tina, having had a run-in of the supernatural variety before, had placed the call as soon as she realized something had seemed off about the deaths. She was the only reason that Sam and Dean had been able to sneak in after hours and could rest assured authorities would be mysteriously absent from their usual beach rounds until opening. It was good to have someone on the inside, but it didn't make Dean less worried about partiers leaving their tents for midnight strolls and running into two guys with guns and no camping permits.

Past the roll of waves, the sound of Sam's feet crunching Earth, there was, oddly, nothing. Dean gave a swift nod, then headed out of the copse of trees and brush, moving from sandy soil to sand in minutes. Out in the open, exposed, he stood facing the water, watching the glimmer of moonlight on its choppy surface. Past a grasping tide, a boulder jutted out of the water, sprayed with foam at every push of the waves. Dean took it all in, trying to ignore the peace settling in his stomach in favor of the alertness that so often kept him alive.

He felt rather than heard Sam at his elbow.

"This is nice," Sam said, an ache in his voice.

Dean set his jaw. "It's cold," he corrected and pulled the flask out of his inside pocket. A quick swig didn't burn the way it used to, but he figured that had more to do with him than the liquor, so he held it out, giving a little shake. "Warm you up."

He was almost surprised when Sam took the offer. Dean watched from the corner of his eye as Sam took a shallow sip and then hid the flask away in the folds of his own jacket. Away from his brother. "We're on a job," he reminded.

"And the victims were all drunk when they were taken," Dean reminded. "Maybe I'm just trying to attract the evil son of a bitch."

"Sure."

Dean pretended the reply was lost beneath the roar of the water; it was easier than noting the disappointment in his brother's voice. He stepped on, his boots dragging up sand, and he was happy the car he'd be tracking the mess back into wasn't his baby.

"So, Tina said that by her best guess the last guy who went missing was—" Dean's voice broke off, brow wrinkling as he took a few more quick steps forward. "You hear that?"

"Hear what?"

The answer became apparent a split second later, when the sound of the cry became louder. It was a shout for help, carried on the wind. Dean turned his head so quickly it made him dizzy, and then his feet went to work on their own. He broke into a run toward the south side of the beach, Sam's tromping pace not too far behind him. It wasn't until he passed the closest rock formation that the girl came into sight.

Dean didn't hesitate, sloshing up shallow water as he grew closer. He could see her well by the moonlight, her bare skin pale as she splashed up water, screaming whenever her dark head of hair broke surface, her pretty features twisted in fear. She wasn't far out, still in the shallows, but something was beneath her, a shadow on a shadow, twisting and contorting as it trapped her in place.

Her eyes locked on to Dean, and she threw her arms out, desperately beckoning her rescuer, but as soon as her mouth opened to cry out again, a figure rose out of the water behind her and wrapped around her neck. It was oil slick and just as black and glistening with pale, familiar circles on its bottom half; a tapered arm from a dweller of the deep.

Dean didn't have time to process that detail, but he did anyway, and he came up empty. He couldn't think of any supernatural creature with arms like those. Dean pulled his handgun free from the back of his jeans, holding it above the sloshing of the water as he ran forward, knee deep, then thigh deep, until he was practically on top of her. The weapon was useless until he could get her out of the way.

Sam was still a few yards from the water. "Dean, wait for me!"

"Help!" she screeched, latching on to Dean's wrist as soon as he held it out to her. "Please—help me!"

He returned the move, yanking her toward him, but she didn't budge. "I've got you," he bit, and pulled again. He turned his head to the side, spotting Sam out of his peripheral. "Sam, I need a—"

The massive black arm slapped the words right out of his mouth and the gun out of his hand. Dean wavered, almost losing his footing on the shifting wet sands, his thoughts dazed by the blow, but he'd dipped just low enough to see his attacker…His gaze ran down the woman's bare chest, no time for it to linger on her heavy breasts, and then to her lower stomach, where the paleness of her skin disappeared. He blinked, confused, until he realized those arms didn't belong to anything beneath her. They were part of _her_.

The bitch had tricked him.

Pissed, he jerked out of her grasp, moving for the knife still in his pocket, but something wrapped around his waist, pulling him toward her again with a strength that knocked the air from his lungs. It was thinner than the fat black arms, and longer, its tip splayed wide like an open leaf and covered in tiny suckers that ripped a patch out of his jacket with just a flick of movement. He could only imagine what it would do to his skin. He'd watched too much TV, and too much porn, not to recognize a tentacle when it had him it its grasp.

A goddamned tentacle monster had him.

There was a joke there, one he was desperate to crack, but one look at its face, and he, for once in his life, managed to swallow down the pun in favor of keeping his breath. Maybe he was getting soft with age, or maybe the lesson had finally sunk in—Dean refused to think too hard on it, concentrating on freeing his fingers enough to find the sheathed knife's handle.

The monster smiled as he struggled, her eyes catching the light. The dark pupils were growing in size and horizontal, split across the width of each orb in an eerie mockery of an eye inside an eye. The features he'd seen earlier, accepted as beautiful, now disguised him.

"You'll do nicely," she hissed, running her fingertips over his jaw.

"I don't taste as good as I look, lady," he growled, straining against her grasp. So much for the lesson sinking in. He tossed his head back, bellowing out at a near growl. "_Sam!"_

Dean kicked out at her, only to feel other limbs grabbing him from beneath the surface and pulling him even closer. He craned his neck, opening his mouth to call out to his brother again and swallowing a mouthful of salt water instead. He came up coughing, just in time to hear a gunshot go wide and see Sam take a blow to the chest thanks to one of the long tentacles. His tall form flew out of the water as if he'd been hit by a wrecking ball, landing back first in the lapping foam with a thud.

Dean didn't have time to see him get back up. Before he could catch his breath, he was pulled under the water, his last sight that of the smirking creature holding him close before the dark depths beneath turned his world to black.

* * *

The sound of the rolling waters was soothing, enticing him to stay in place and enjoy its lullaby.

Sam thought he'd had this dream before, but not often enough. It was based on a memory from years past, too many for him to count—or, at least, it felt that way now. He'd fallen sleep on the damp sands after a dip in the water, at an odd peace, despite his instinct to not be so exposed, so out in the open. A beautiful blonde, the woman he was in love with, lay beside him, watching him, he could tell, even as he drifted out of consciousness.

Only something about the memory didn't sit right this time. The dream had changed the happy moment to something less pleasing. Gone was the touch of the sun on his skin. In its place was a bone deep chill. Some part of Sam panicked right then, as that detail sunk in. He wasn't sure why, but he was suddenly mad at himself for keeping his eyes shut. These minutes, wasted in a nap on the sand, were precious for a reason he couldn't quite put his finger on.

As soon as his eyes cracked open, taking in the moon above, reality flooded back to him. He scrambled onto his knees, nearly falling over again when the pain at the back of his head hit him. He fingered through his hair until he found an egg-shaped lump, where his head must have bounced off of one of the smaller rocks littering the sands. There was no blood, though, which was a plus, he supposed. The wind hit him, sending a shiver over his whole body, and he crawled the few feet necessary to hit the dry sand, plopping back down to wait for his head to quit spinning.

It was then that he realized what was still missing from this picture. The woman—the _thing _in the water—was gone. And so was his brother.

"Dean." He whispered the name, as if it might conjure the man. It didn't work. He took a shallow breath, fighting back the panic rising up his throat like bile. "Dean, where are you, man…?"

He patted his aching chest, feeling the square in the inside breast pocket. It felt surprisingly dry, somehow spared by the water he'd been lying in. He pulled out the cell phone, not taking the time necessary to note the miracle that it was not only in one piece, protected from the blow, but also working. He was too preoccupied by the fact that he had no service and the clock across the screen was wrong. Had to be wrong. He'd last checked when they were still in the camp ground but…best guess? He'd lost at least ten minutes lying in the water. Maybe more.

"No..."

Dean had been gone for over ten minutes.

Sam rubbed at the tightness over his heart, the worry working its way to surface. If the creature had pulled Dean out to sea, if the creature had pulled him under the water, it would only take a few minutes for...

"No. _No_." Sam shook his head, swallowing down that thought. There was no way Dean was dead. He'd feel it if Dean were dead, and he refused to believe otherwise.

He pushed himself up onto his feet, jaw set as he turned a circle, finally finding the duffel he'd dropped before running into the water. He pulled it up, letting the jug of Borax solution drop out as he dug free the heavy Desert Eagle at the bottom. It wasn't his choice weapon, but the caliber would insure the creature slowed down, even if he didn't know how to kill it. Yet.

He stared out at the night, livid, as if it were somehow responsible for his missing brother. He refused to collapse in hopelessness just yet. Instead, he mentally combed through every detail he could remember of what Tina had told them about the case, what he'd learned about the park from his own research, what the coroner's report had said about the corpses—_the corpses_. Sam's eyes widened. The victims—Tina had even made note that their causes of death hadn't involved drowning. Which meant that maybe they were killed outside the water.

Sam took off at a dead run, refusing the urge to look at the phone again, see just how many more minutes he'd wasted, to consider how long it would take the monster to get where it was going and start chowing down on its supper. Sam tasted acid at the back of his throat at the mere thought.

He scanned the rocks in the distance, considering them. From what he'd read, the park had several sea caves and grottos, perfect places for a creature to hide in when the beach-goers were away. It was possible the monster had circled back toward the beach with its victim—with Dean.

The beachfront couldn't have been two miles long, but his body was sore, heavy with water, his feet digging in the sand, and his head pounding. The journey to the closest formations seemed painstakingly long. He forced himself to slow down, just as he approached, and listen.

He forgot the breeze, his body flooded with heat when he heard the soft chuckle bouncing off the rocks. Nostrils flared in anger, he forced himself to concentrate, leveling his weapon, and easing around the first formation and into a short tunnel lined in mussels. It led back out to the beach and closer to the cave. There, floating on a pool of water, was the shredded jacket Dean had been wearing.

Sam straightened, letting his inner hunter take over. There wasn't time to be a brother right now, to save the ruined remnant. He moved, shoulders tight, walk loose and graceful, back into the moonlight for a better look at the cave. It was still too dark for him to see much beyond the shifting of shadows and the porcelain glimmer of her bare, feminine shoulder blades, but there she was, just a few feet inside the grotto, blanketed in shadow, her voice drowned by the sounds of the morning tide but harsh.

_"Now, now, hunter…We're not finished yet. You're young, strong. You've got more in you still…"_

Sam lined up the Eagle, waiting for the chance to take the shot. Below the waist, her body was massive, fanning out elegantly in dark, textured flesh, a long arm at each tip helping her lift herself up. Two longer appendages grew out from either side of her hips, tentacles, which danced through the air a moment, coming back down in front of her…down to Dean. Sam hesitated only a moment, concentrating—he had to make sure Dean was still on the ground, not sitting up in front of her or the shot could take them both out.

Then she cocked her head, her slick hair spilling down, and a ripple ran over her form, shifting her body enough for Sam to see the awkward tilt of Dean's boot peeking out beneath. It was confirmation enough.

The blast of the gun echoed over the rock, sounding like a canon had been fired, but Sam was deaf to it, watching only the spray of brain matter and hair. The top half of the creature's head was gone, the bowl of the skull swaying on the neck a moment before the monster collapsed forward, its arms twitching against the sand like so many snake tails.

"Dean!" Sam called out, running forward, gun still at the ready, but the creature's human-like torso remained at a twisted angle.

"Sam."

The reply was muffled, and a moment later Dean's arm thrust out, clawing at the rock. Sam hopped over the closest black arm, his foot catching it. The flesh peeled away as a gelatinous goo. Close up, he could see that the creature's torso was undergoing a similar transformation. It reminded him too much of a shifter shedding his skin.

"Gross…" Sam muttered, shaking his head as the scent of the decaying monster hit him. A barrel of two-day-old fish guts couldn't have been more rancid. "But at least we don't have to worry too much about clean up."

He reached the other side of the creature, where his own shadow blocked the moon from casting its light any further, and tucked the gun at the small of his back as best he could. Still, even in the dark, he could make out Dean's silhouetted form, struggling to pull himself up, yanking at his pants legs as if they were still caught beneath the monster's weight. Sam was blinded to his features but managed to grab his elbow and help him back to the mouth of the small grotto.

When they stumbled out together, Sam paused, frozen in place as he got a decent look at his brother. His eyes widened as he took in the shredded t-shirt and ripped jeans, both of which were streaked with dark stains. And, there was something marring the exposed skin as well, strange, rounded cuts.

"Jesus, Dean—you're bleeding."

Dean stared back at him, his eyes shadowed. His lips twitched, as if he'd almost replied, then thought better of it. He nodded, looking down at himself. "Some of it's ink."

That explained the black stains on the victims. Sam frowned. "Like ink from an octopus?"

"Hell if I know. Looked more like a squid to me, but, shit." He swallowed hard, as if he were trying not to gag. "Can we get the hell out of here? That smell..."

Dean shivered, reminding Sam that they were both soaking wet in winter and standing next to the ocean. Not a great combination. Sam pulled off his jacket, quickly unbuttoning his outer shirt, which was only slightly drier, and shoving it at his brother.

Dean took it, his movements stiff as he slipped it over his shoulder. "I need to wash this smell off," he said, softly.

Sam touched his arm, carefully leading him back toward the short tunnel. "Someone will have heard that shot, too. Waves or no waves. Think you can make the walk back? If not, Tina could—"

"I'm fine," Dean interrupted.

As if to prove his point, he trudged forward, limping slightly, as if he'd banged his bad leg against the rocks. He passed his brother, leaving Sam to grab their duffel bag out of the sand. Lucifer stood on the beach, holding the strap out to him.

"Fine?" One brow above a narrow, pale blue eye cocked in surprise. "Now, we both know he'll never be _fine_, don't we, Sammy?"

Sam didn't need this right now. He gave his head a sharp shake, remembering his wound too late. He winced, pinching the spot between his eyebrows in an attempt to ward off the sudden headache the movement brought. By the time he looked up, Lucifer was gone, and Dean was far off. The ocean, though, was exactly where it had always been.

* * *

**End Notes:** Thanks for reading! Part 2 of 2 should be up shortly.


	2. Chapter 2

**WARNING: **References to non-con! Not extremely explicit to keep it at an M rating, but it could still be trigger-y for some readers.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Supernatural. Written for entertainment, not profit.

* * *

**_If We Fall or Merely Stumble_**

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Part 2 of 2

* * *

The room was a luxury that they couldn't afford, in any sense of the word, but it was also a necessity that Dean couldn't say no to. It was the usual kind of shithole that took cash without looking at an ID for more than two seconds. Dean had let his brother take care of the details and shot inside before Sam could get the key out of the door.

"…So, like I said, I think I remember Bobby mentioning mythical hybrids in one of his books. The more commonly thought of examples would be mermaids, or a sphinx or..." Sam rambled on, the way he'd been doing since they got in the car, over an hour ago, and drove off as far from Malibu or the coast as they could manage before the stink had them pulling over. "…Now, I might be mistaken, but I think that thing must have been a mix of a human and…"

Dean let the voice fade away, staring at the room as if it were somehow different than the usual fare. Up until Frank's paranoid ass had gotten them in the habit of squatting instead of paying for four walls that came with electricity and hot water, that was. Dean could feel the bruises beneath the clothes, the welts formed and awaiting attention, the cuts scabbing over. His pulse thundered in his ears, leaving him deaf a moment. When the silent storm passed, clarity came back, Sam's voice still loud from across the room, where he was dragging in their clothing duffel and his laptop.

"…We still don't know why it was feeding, though. Why it just appeared there on the beach, but—"

Dean knew. He unzipped the bag, pulling out a pair of sweats that had worked its way to the top.

"Shower," he announced, cutting his brother off and not leaving room for debate. He disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door shut a bit too forcefully as he yanked free the plastic bag from the tiny garbage can to throw his ruining clothes into. They'd need to burn them at their next stop.

He was toeing off his waterlogged boots when a soft tapping stilled him. "Dean?" His brother's voice was muffled through the door. "Will you be alright while I run over to the drug store?"

"Go," Dean snapped, tossing off his shirt.

A few moments later, he heard the door shut to the motel room, and he immediately let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His whole body trembled as he released the ironclad grip he'd had on the rip at the side of his jeans, letting them fall and giving them a kick away.

"Christ," he hissed, balancing himself against the ceramic sink. He let his head hang, sucking in air and suddenly feeling like a marathon runner. He kept his eyes clenched shut, avoiding the mirror, but he didn't have to look in it to know how damaged he'd appear to anyone else.

Dean knew full well how much his body could take, and this? This was nothing. Which didn't mean his muscles would stop quaking any time soon. Which didn't mean the sting of those evenly lined, small, circular cuts along his torso, around each of his thighs, and dotting his neck, would stop any time soon. He didn't have control of that; what he did have control of was the dried blood crusted over his body, the smell of the creature on his skin.

He jerked himself away from the sink, raising one leg to get into the shower. A shock of pain from his core pushed a hiss out from between his teeth, and he could feel a trickle of wetness running down the back of one thigh. Ignoring it, he twisted the faucet, setting it as hot as it could manage and pressing the side of his body against the wall to hold himself up.

He was amazed he'd made it out of the car and inside, if truth be told. The adrenaline that had sent him at a near run through the park was long since gone, but he'd always been good at faking the important stuff. Sam didn't need to know that he could hardly stand, that the ride here had been torture. There were a lot of things Sam didn't need to know, as a matter of fact.

The heat of the water was brutal, but he stayed put, wiping a hand across his face and letting the stream trail down his neck, over his chest, to his taunt stomach. That spot of flesh was especially tender, each round circle sounding its existence at his touch. He could almost feel it again, the creature's arm pressed around him, squeezing him until he was forced to consciousness.

The memory was enough to send him down onto his knees, hard. Before he could stop himself, he was bent forward, a mouthful of bile and salt water spilling out toward the drain. He'd woke in the cave, coughing up the same mixture, but then, the water surrounding him had been cold instead of scalding.

_Dean's chest jerks as he opens his mouth, gurgling up water and nearly choking on it anew. As soon as he catches his first solid breath, his eyes drift open lazily. His surroundings are dark, partly because of the rock standing high around him, partly because of the creature over him, blocking out the moonlight at her back._

_"Hello, hunter." Her deep, throaty voice echoes over the cave walls like the white noise off the ocean. "It'll be so much better if you're awake for this…"_

_"For what?" It's all his throat, raw from saltwater and acid, can manage at the moment, but he doesn't need her answer._

_The more awake he's becoming, the more details he's taking in, like the fact that his shirt is pushed high on his chest and the waist of his jeans has been yanked down to his knees. The fear that comes over him now is different from the wave he felt when certain death was his only threat. This new emotion is laced with shame, and with a sense of familiarity._

_He growls out at her, struggling, but one of the arms holds his wrists right above his head, and the weight of the other appendages—there seems to be so many of them—shifting and sliding against sand and rock and flesh keep him perfectly in place without much effort._

_"Hush now, hunter, and you might enjoy this."_

_"Screw you," he snaps._

_"You're getting the idea," she replies, smiling, black gaze crawling over his form. "Fine. Struggle. But I will get what I need from you. I know how men work."_

_The two long tentacles he'd seen on the beach slide over his chest like hands, caressing him. Their suckers at the tip pull and tug painfully, cutting into his skin. He grimaces, pushing his back into the weathered rocks beneath. Suddenly, one of the tentacles pulls down his body, its decent less painful, the suckers more careful as they drop below his belly button._

_"I wouldn't pull away if I were you," she warns. "My touch can rip the flesh off your tender places, and that wouldn't be good for either of us…"_

_"Don't…" Dean bites down the word, pissed at himself for allowing the plea, and throws his head back, not wanting to see what he can so easily feel. The tentacle brushes over him, lifting him, and its slender width encircles him like a snake, squeezing the life out of its prey._

_Heat seeps out of his limbs and pools at his core._

_"Son of a bitch," he grunts, and clenches his eyes shut, trying to keep his mind on anything but the tight knot of tentacle rippling over his softest flesh. It doesn't feel good—too tight, too strange—but his body reacts to it. Damned betrayer._

_He calms himself, trying to hear the ocean past her, trying to stop himself from getting any harder. What she wants from him…he won't give it again. He's been down that road. He's seen where it leads._

_"You're going to need more," she says, but her voice is filled with anything but disappointment. He doesn't have time to question the comment before he feels the arms, their suckers less forgiving, wrap around his thighs and lift bare lower body up off the ground. The second tentacle waves its wide tip at him before dipping low and rolling its slick flesh over the cleft between his cheeks._

_Dean's eyes open wide in shock, a litany of one word, unvoiced, running through his head: no no no no no…This is supposed to be a part of Hell that he left behind in the pit. This isn't supposed to happen _here_, not anymore. Dean struggles, tensing, but the tip of the tentacle prods against him unrelentingly. It doesn't have the subtlety of a wandering finger. It doesn't have the human instinct to take its time…The appendage folds its leaf-like shape and simply pushes._

_Dean swallows down his cry as skin splits, blood slickening the already slimy tentacle. He thrusts his hips up, trying to pull free, but the movement only forces his shame to the surface._

_He almost loses himself when human fingers touch his lips. The monster hovers over him and her back arches as she caresses his face, wiping away tears he hasn't realized are there. God, why hadn't she killed him yet, is the only thought still circling his head._

_"Shhh, now, you're almost there…" she cooes._

_The tentacle finds a steady rhythm, his mouth opens without his permission, a low moan slipping out, despite the pain._

_He feels something wet sheath him as the monster lowers the core of her body down onto him. Her smile widens in delight as she takes him in, her arms shifting to rock her body over him.  
_

_There is no escaping this, but he can forget, he tells himself. He can forget where he's at, what's happening. What is over him._

_"Give me your life," she demands._

_He doesn't want to obey, but the suckers pull at him from the inside and the heat beckons him from the outside. The arms holding up his arms lift further and the motion is enough. He quakes, then finds his release.  
_

_She lifts off of him. Just as quickly, the tentacle pull away, merciless in it speed, and he clenches his jaw so hard something cracks. The pain wracks over him, leaving him shaking and sweating, despite the cold air._

_"You're…" He chokes on his words, still grimacing. "…Gonna kill me now. Like the others."_

_She laughs; a sound too much like a girl's. "Unlike those sloppy drunkards, you still have your uses. I'm going to drain you dry before I feast—but you should be happy. You're going to be a father of many…"_

_"Bitch."_

_"Now, now, hunter. We're not finished yet. You're young, strong. You've got more in you still…"_

Dean pulled himself up off of his knees, his weak legs shaking under his weight. The water raining down on him was lukewarm and his muscles still as tense as ever. He ran the washrag over his flank, hoping the cheap free soap would kill the smell of the dead creature. It wouldn't, but he'd continue to try.

When the shot had been fired, when he'd realized Sam was so close by, he'd pulled his hands free and shifted his weight to get his jeans back up his legs. By the time his brother appeared, he at least had himself covered, which was some small comfort, but it wasn't until he'd stared Sam in the eye that he'd realized his brother hadn't seen anything. He didn't know…

Which meant, as broken as Dean felt, he still looked the same. Seemed the same.

Dean, satisfied the stench was gone, finally stepped out of the shower, drying himself off.

It made a certain kind of sense. This wasn't the worst injury he'd ever been dealt, and shame, it just had a way of piling on that made it easier to bear, despite the fresh weight. Pain was nothing new in his life, nothing to get worked up over. There were worse things, he knew.

* * *

It followed as he cruised the aisles, as he handed the half-asleep final shift worker a few crumpled bills, as he walked the two blocks to the motel's one-level form. In the distance, light crawled over the world, announcing dawn, but Sam knew madness wasn't abated by a new day alone. His passenger remained, just out of sight, no matter how much he pushed on the scar at his palm or how much his head ached.

Sam told himself it was the concussion, that he wasn't getting any worse, and that it absolutely had nothing to do with the hunt. Even though he couldn't see him at the moment, he could hear Lucifer_ tut_ in his ear…"_Really, you haven't put any of this together yet, Sam?"_

Always in sync on some level, Sam stepped through the room's front door, holding a bag of fresh tubes of antibacterial gel from the drug store, the same moment Dean stepped out of the bathroom, holding a garbage bag heavy with what had to be his soiled clothes. Dean's lips tightened into a line, but he gave a curt nod of acknowledgement before tossing his load down on the floor beside the TV stand and then rifling through the duffel for their med kit.

Sam dropped the ointment beside him. Without a word, Dean picked it up, adding it to the supplies.

Sam swallowed hard, not bothering to hide the fact that he was taking inventory of Dean's wounds. He'd stepped out in a pair of sweat pants, and his bare torso was a canvas of purple bruises and bright pink welts. The array of circles making paths over Dean's skin were so perfectly patterned that healed, if they scarred, they'd probably look deliberate. Like some sort of tribal sigils. Sam reached out, touching one across the shoulder that was still bleeding, but Dean side-stepped.

"Knock it off," he muttered.

Sam frowned. "If you let me give you a hand, we can have these treated in half the time. Then we can get some sleep."

"I can take care of it." Dean shrugged, as if to make the statement less hostile. Then he took the kit with him, disappearing back into the bathroom.

Sam took a step to follow, confused. Dean could be cold, distant, when he wanted to be, but when it came to injuries, he was rarely impractical. Sam knew for a fact he couldn't reach those cuts across his back without help.

A whistle sounded. "Oh, Sammy?"

Sam turned, face tight with annoyance for paying attention to the call, but Lucifer only frowned slightly from his spot beside the television, leaning with his back to the wall. With one foot, he kicked at the garbage bag full of Dean's clothes, and they rolled into the walkway, the loose knot at the top springing open. The devil didn't speak; he simply watched, a slow smile growing on his face when Sam swallowed hard and stepped over, trying not to meet his eye. It wasn't a hard task, as his attention was fully on his clothes spilling out.

Sam reached down, ready to shove them back into the bag, but his hand hovered over the leg of the jeans, then pulled them completely free. Sam could remember, from the park, from the ride here, that they were ripped in spots and filthy, but he hadn't seen the long tear down the side, or the missing button. Dean must have been holding them up the whole time.

"Huh," Lucifer said, leaning forward as if curious. His eyes rose, a smile in their blue depths. "You know, I wonder what she was doing to him all that time…Didn't have him out at sea, or he would have drowned. Didn't take him far away, either…And she obviously wasn't eating him."

Sam tasted bile in the back of his throat. The seat of the pants, the light colored denim inside, was stiff with a pool of almost dried blood. The center was still wet and bright and fresh. From sitting in the car. In pain. Bleeding.

Lucifer's smile widened with amusement. "I'm sure the two of them just enjoyed a bit of light conversation before Sammy came to big brother's rescue."

Sam clenched his jaw to stop from speaking and shoved the jeans back into the bag, tossing it back down into place. Then he charged across the room, hand over the bathroom door knob before he'd even realized what he was doing. He paused, blinking, breathing so loudly he was sure Dean could probably hear him from the other side.

Lucifer bounced down onto the edge of the bed, smirking. "Take it as a good sign, Sammy—the monsters have taken to screwing with your brother instead of you these days. That's a step in the right direction."

Sam wanted to scream at the hallucination, but his voice was caught in his throat. Instead, he slid down the door, sitting with his back against it, and waited. He could hear Dean inside, ripping open bandages, tearing at wrappers.

They didn't make anything to cover wounds that big.

Sam ran a hand over his face, resolved to stay put, even as Lucifer sat with him, chattering in his ear. The devil voiced his thoughts—there was no fixing some things. Even before tonight, there was no fixing either of them. Still, Sam knew how to keep them from shattering entirely:

When Dean would come out, Sam wouldn't say a word about the clothes, or the circular cuts the bandages missed. He wouldn't offer up the antibiotics his brother needed to take, but leave the med kit open for him to see them instead. Sam wouldn't offer comfort, but an open road, a quick job he'd find sometime in the next hour. Moving—after what happened to Cas, after what happened to Bobby, after what would happen to _him_ the day the devil didn't stop speaking…After all that, Sam knew the best way to keep Dean from falling apart was to keep him moving too fast to notice he was so badly broken.

Sam mentally mapped out the course of action, but stayed glued to the floor, listening to his brother on the other side.

* * *

**End Notes:** Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story. Our poor boys. I really shouldn't hurt them so.


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